


Lich King

by venus woman and giant saurian (grayglube)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, dark fairytale-ish, dubcon overtones, pregnancy loss, vague bestiality reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/venus%20woman%20and%20giant%20saurian
Summary: She was always meant to be some man’s queen.





	Lich King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [royallieu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/royallieu/gifts).



> For the jonsa exchange on tumblr, this round's theme was 'milestone'
> 
> So here's this, in which the milestone would be ‘that crazy moment when you rise from the dead’ and also 'that crazy moment when you die and also get brought back to life'
> 
> In which Jon is not the son of Eddard Stark but an ancient imprisoned unnamed King who may or may not (totally was) the night king.
> 
> asterisks are pov changes

 

_A warrior who knew no fear. 'And that was the fault in him,' she would add, 'for all men must know fear.’_

 

* * *

 

 She is a northern daughter, a vision of fire, blood, and the bright hands of the weirwoods.

 

He is deathless and wakeful below.

 

She prays where he has eyes and she kneels weeping in the snow of his lands.

 

* * *

 

In the beginning she is too far, South where his groves were burned long ages ago. There he is blind.

 

He dreams, if he’s ever dreamed, that he might still hear her, his roots still buried below the ground where she has cast herself, prostrate to the will of something that might come and claim her and wrap her in the safety of being owned and owed to something more than the boy king who has not yet learned of what true savagery is, but will soon with practice and prey.

 

It is not yet hard to look past her cries, he is North and cold, things might always be different.

 

His anger would poison his bones and churn his gut bloody like lye should he still be one of true flesh, but he is not yet whole and it matters not what _might_.

 

Worms are blind and that is all he is south of where the ice still covers an entire world in the clouded mirror of dead aeons.

 

His chains were rust and crumbling anyway and he was a skeleton amongst the broken stone of an ancient throne, once.

 

There is no kindness in him and honor has fled, such things are old notions now.

 

She released him and then she’d left, a child’s folly turned to a woman’s pain, soon. She will not remain there and he will not keep to his broken throne.

 

* * *

   

Her father kills the wolf.

 

Below, in his silent, cold halls of desertion and dead kings that would not have been had he never risen, the candles go out and his rage shatters the quiet.

 

He curses her father.

 

And, before she has returned he curses her brother, who saw no value in the life of a girl, and her mother who was too weak of will to do what truly needed to be done.

 

* * *

  

He has seen her beaten and frightened, worse than that he knows what still must come.

 

She is beautiful and men will savage her, and even as his ageless bones will fall to dust and he will have cause to wonder why her changeless fate would give him cause to rise.

 

The halls above are empty, burned and blackened, he's sees them through eyes that are his own now.

 

There is a dead man beneath the tree the color of bones and blood, old and bloodless.

 

It is cold, he wraps himself in the dead man’s black robes and leaves him with his chain, he has had enough of chains, too much to pretend he might be a man again, to hide in the skin of another for a time.

 

They are two corpses below the watching tree.

 

* * *

  

He sits before the waters and shies from his own odious reflection, half formed thing that he is, he watches what there is to see of his unlikely love instead of the hellish thing yet unwhole that is his own face.

 

His _love_.

 

The word is bitter wine.

 

She must be such, he hasn’t moved since Kings of Winter called him from the North for all their arrogance and bound him in chains in the bowels of their fine castle, until he turned to leather and bone below their feet. They stalled the Winter and the night upon nights of darkness and moon for many of their lifetimes, but there are others like and unlike him who bring winter in their wake now and they are far more pitiless than he.

 

He, at least, remembers what is was to be a man.

 

He can feel warmth still, blood will not freeze on his skin.

 

He _enjoys_ the kill because he might still feel the satisfaction of it.

 

And, he wants.

 

He wants with an awful grinding in his bones. He’s been so long below, until she came, a girl and her wolf. In the water he sees her, a northern daughter, almost a woman, her wolf dead and her kin cursed. He spies the sharpness of his own face and scars in the waters of the wood then, the wraith he was gone.

 

He sees the color of her hair in the canopy above, her paleness in the snow. She is coming North and he is of flesh again.

 

He can hear men, they come on horses, they ride across the freezing earth.

 

He turns from the water and looks to the smoke that rises from the broken halls of her home. She will weep when she looks upon it and he will taste her tears and feel the blood of men upon his skin, and then he will taste the salt of her body and feel the warmth of her around him and she will be glad for it.

 

Though, perhaps, not a first,

 

* * *

  

They sack his halls, carve out their visages of flayed broken dead men, they yank high the bodies of children, burned and smelling of good roasted meat.

 

He has not eaten for a hundred lifetimes.

 

He hungers deeply.

 

Prayers do not fill the belly of a man but they put flesh back onto bone and a beat in the crabapple hardness of a thrice stabbed heart.

 

But, there is pain in living and he wants to be relieved of it. He can wait but he does not enjoy seclusion when he might have battle.

 

Something growls in the darkness beside his knee. A beast risen, bones taken from his own, eyes as red as his promised lover’s hair, the flush of her skin, the blood of her lips cracked from the cold, cold that will be his kiss, she will warm him, she will sate him.

 

All her enemies are his own.

 

* * *

  

He will not be chained again.

 

He must wait.

 

He must listen.

 

The beast at his heels growls in cadence to his own storm, outside the winds scream and the snow has begun to fall.

 

_“I take this man.”_

She will break before dawn and she will weep.

 

He roars below.

 

She prays with her face pressed to the furs of a marriage bed he will burn, under a man named for snow who will be a corpse upon it soon.

 

* * *

 

They do not see him as they would see a man, but they see his beast, the thing that comes from the storm, snow flecked red and men too far in their cups to run or beg or weep.

 

He has lost his sword. They took it from him once and lost it in the South, his hand longs for it like he aches for flesh to yield under a caress, a bruise that must be pressed to be assuaged.

 

He pulls men apart, one, two at a time, with his hands until they, until he, until the hall is a red as her hair.

 

His beast feasts and outside the chamber where a heart beats in trapped, caged, fear and unshed terror. 

 

A creature who was once a man too shakes on the stone, fitful and awake. It is a man who thinks himself some other’s beaten dog. A man who is bone and grey, savaged and hopeless, who has been made to watch many things. A boy from the sea who could not swim and so drowned.

 

“Move.”

 

And, the creature that shakes, rises, obeisant, for it is not fear that the creature looks upon him with.

 

Fear, of course, is not as deep a thing as doom and he is unjammed doom, he may not be stopped, he sweeps forward and blankets all of what is before him.

 

His great love, his fount of gentle, needful, desperate prayers holds herself more tightly, so fully made of grief and hate and ruinous hope that his heart beats in succession to her quiet sobs, throbbing like a stumped limb.

 

The man who has made her pray for an end and a reprieve and a lessening of the bleeding pain between her tender legs wakes, rises for his sword, a pale naked spectre in chambers not his own with a bride he has _stolen_.

 

He takes the thief’s sword away, his hands, his eyes.

 

He pulls his jaw from him and his limbs until he is meat for his own beasts to feast upon.

 

Red paints her from the slain man he will flay parts of before dawn to make boots and gloves of his pale hide for her

 

He says her name and his voice rattles like a handful of bones and wind.

 

* * *

  

“Who are you?”

 

“Your deathless lord.” His humor tastes grim but still she might try to smile.

 

“And what am I to be?” she asks like she is to be his captive bride when she has always only been his willing supplicant.

 

He has thought of all titles he might claim for her, finding none suitable in the tongue of men that live now.

 

“Vargamor.”

 

“I don’t know that word.” But, she stops to taste the titles she knows with her mind before having them upon her tongue. “Your grace,” she adds meekly, head incline softly down like some bowed branch of a weirwood.

 

“My pious guest.”

 

“I do not keep the Seven.”

 

He grins widely, his cheeks bone-white and she shivers. She is no silent sister nor septa, she is a priestess of his own temple. He circles, touches upon her hair.

 

“Older eyes watch you, hear you.”

 

A temple of dead men on their stone thrones with swords across their knees.

 

She shivers again and he covers her in his own cloak.

 

* * *

  

“I know who you are,” she says, her voice a judgement, a sword she has swung herself.

 

He is endlessly amused by her.

 

“Who?” he asks.

 

“You were in the crypts. But, you were only bones.”

 

“They all forgot. My name and my deeds, it's all forgotten.”

 

She transforms into something new, humble and penitent. “Thank you.”

 

She thinks he has saved her, he has only reclaimed what was always to be his.

 

“You were never for any of them to touch.”

 

Her eyes grow wide when looking upon his face. A wolf howls from the dark and he sees it, loping close and dropping a kill, steaming in the frost at her booted feet, a tender carcass to see her well-fed.

 

She begins to weep.

 

He pulls her forward by the chin to touch a tongue to her cold cheek, kisses her until her cry breaks upon his lips. She holds his arms and falls to stillness in them.

 

She is afraid, she begs with an entreaty of prayer that he might halt, wait, _please_.

 

He smiles and she tucks away her great dread for him.

 

* * *

  

“Who are you to be?”

 

He must have a name if he is to be her Lord, if he is to rule again but still he ponders her tender question to make meaning out of it.

 

“My name?” he asks.

 

Her eyes glaze with sad affect. It's false but no less admired as she puts the question to him. “Do you have one?”

 

“Snow.”

 

“You are a natural son?”

 

“I have no mother.”

 

“I…”

 

Her first surprise lingers on until it is as dead as a falling bird, he knows she means to speak some sentiment that might only be another beautiful string of words woven into a pretty lie to try and charm him, to make sense of him as a girl might know a man before _knowing_ a man.

 

“Snow or Stark, I am your lord. Am I not?”

 

He is a not a man.

 

And, he has never been _just_ a Lord.

 

He smiles with all his teeth.

 

* * *

  

She bars her door.

 

He understands, but it will not in the end, be cause enough for him to relent.

 

Time enough she has looked upon his mouth with tender eyes, or reached haltingly for his hand and failed to grasp it.

 

There are questions in her gaze.

 

She longs to know if he is made of bones or flesh beneath his cloak and jerkin, if she might find him something to fear in the dark or something to put a mouth full of prayers to in hot deference.

 

His blood rises.

 

* * *

 

There are more soon, more than him or her or the servants and the creature who has survived his culling of the castle.

 

Men come, thinking her a rumor, a dead girl who could not possibly have survived, men angry for kin who have not returned, men who wish to find fault with her, who wish to make her pay for their own pain with more of her own.

 

She greets them in the hall, she does not know where their brothers and bannermen are, only that they had gone out into the snow with her once-husband and not returned.

 

Most like they are dead.

 

She will wait before she names herself widow.

 

Her voice is bird song and her beauty unmatched and she is his alone.

 

She has dressed in a gown of shadow and feathers that look of scales, he watches from her high table, the Maester and the creature sit beside him, they do not look upon him if they might help it.

 

The whole hall might not think him there, he is an uncertain thing to look upon.

 

He takes the measure of the men seated in the hall and finds them wanting, only those who have supped on grief and lain with horror might look upon his face and find a shape to it behind the shadows that crowd before it.

 

* * *

 

She is clever and in her there is a fire and a flame.

 

She is so very bright and he wants to know the taste of her.

 

She denies him but he holds her quick by each hip.

 

She twists and cries out as her small clothes fall, ruined between her stockinged feet and boots, she holds him by the hair as if she can stall a thought or a feeling once touched, once pulled, once begged for.

 

She shivers.

 

She tastes of some half-remembered thing he might call summer.

 

She weeps but she is glad for him.

 

He can taste it inside of her.

 

She will barter her body as if she might truly be the master of it.

 

*            *            *

 

 

Her father and the King move into the crypts and she might hear their rough voices from the stairs. She wonders what the gods, the quiet ones of her father and the seven of her mother, might bring forth for her.

 

She tries holding her breath to hear them better.

 

She is meant to be the bride of a prince and her heart might burst from the weight of it.

 

* * *

  

She is below once more in the dark, she will leave soon with her father and her sister, and she has come to know what that means for her. She might never return again. In the dark her smallest brother and Arya hide. She chases them from behind the stone bodies of her father’s father and the silent Starks that lie in repose further below.

 

When they tire themselves from their games she finds an excuse to remain in the dark, alone that she wanders, wondering what might come to pass once she has left the familiar halls of her girlhood.

 

Her head and heart are full of southern springs.

 

The stone stairs lead down, deep down.

 

The tapers wave and in the dark she can feel the warmth in the stone and the wet of the winter. All sound has fled with the light of day.

 

Something nameless pulls her on, something depthless. Lady trots beside her, a quiet and constant companion. It feels like she has walked for ages down amongst the dead Kings of Winter.

 

She is sure the spot where Lady begins to pace restlessly should be broken rock and not more of the same hall, the crypts below are a dark well with no place for a slippered foot to find purchase. But, the floor is whole, unbroken with age, and bears her weight and she moves without the trepidations of crossing a ruin of ancient stone.

 

Her candle has burned far too low. She knows she should not have come so far but Lady beside her might still find their way fast enough for the light to last. The hot drip of the candle burns her fingers, she switches the hand that holds it and rubs wax away from her tender skin.

 

It is a quiet world below.

 

A light casts shadows before her, a lit candle on the wall in the stone of its half votive, she wonders who might have left it, for surely there might be no one but her this far below.

 

She takes the fresh light to illuminate her descent and what she finds in the deepest part of the crypts that bear her families name is something from a dark tale, displayed before her in grim glory.

 

The remains of a man sit, waiting. The leather of his jerkin the same rough husk as his skin, his hair held to a skull that has been clutched tight in the grimace of death and the cold. The corpse is long past rot, a shriveled thing on a throne that rests inside a circle of scattered bones, ashes and salt.

 

Her skirts drag over the line of it and she goes close to the thing that would surely make her shriek if sight of her fell under the eye of any other than her wolf, a lady must show horror and spurn the dead. She might not yet play such a role if none are near enough to look upon her face, she is not so fearful of her own house’s dead.

 

Her fear is quiet, as the dead are dead and cannot hurt even a little girl.

 

It is only a thing of dried skin and bone trapped inside its rotten cloak and stained leathers, chained to a stone seat made for bigger men and the shape of Kings.

 

She does not wonder who it is, what it is, why it is below, she only thinks of its lonely death, for surely such an expression on the remains of a face she can no longer make out the features of would only appear if one were trapped, waiting, screaming, begging to be set free again.

 

She touches the brown-clay color of the iron gone to rust at the wrists of the dead thing.

 

No.

 

It would not have begged.

 

Kings do not beg and only a king might sit upon a throne.

 

She steps from it, across its court of bones and dust and salt and curtsies low before its throne. Lady stays to the edges of the lonely crypt, waiting to lead her from the dark.

 

She leaves. The light is dying outside, after the crypts it still hurts her eyes. She does not cross her septa’s path, there is no one in the yard at all.

 

* * *

 

On the road to the south she dreams of loosened bounds and broken swords.

 

* * *

 

When Lady is slaughtered she is sent north to lie as bones beside Kings.

 

She thinks of her wolf keeping company with the lonely King of Winter who sits on his ruined throne and weeps wishing she had never left at all.

 

She does not speak to her sister or to her father for many nights, for many leagues, for a lifetime it seems.

 

* * *

  

When her brother is named traitor she decries his betrayal and calls him what they wish to hear him so-called.

 

Her throat burns, she wishes for a sword to run her through, for her head to be cleaved from atop her shoulders as the father she betrayed, as the brother she renounced and named faithless.

 

She cries into the dirt for want of rescue, it aches in her, in her bones which she rather were dust, which she would have lie in Winterfell beside her wolf, beside the brave kings who would shun her company now in favor of the dark.

 

She prays for strength but not for peace.

 

She wants none of the Queen’s peace, none of her hateful son’s attentions, she wishes for the victory of their enemies.

 

* * *

  

On the ship there is nowhere to pray.

 

In the Eyrie it snows and she might close her eyes and remember the northern cold and her cousin’s shrieks as those of her smallest brothers.

 

It is not home but her boots press into the fresh fall of a white, near-winter, blanket of cold all the same. In the night a woman cries out, it rings from the sky it seems.

 

She prays the woman might stop shrieking of her lust and be silent.

 

* * *

  

She shrieks on her own wedding night, screams, crawls.

 

Pain is red and she is hurt everywhere, her tender heart torn from her, her beauty some awful judgement delivered by cruel gods.

 

She was married in the eyes of her father’s god and their verdicts are final and weighted with first and final gasp.

 

She wishes she might die, but such a thing will not be allowed of her.

 

* * *

 

 

Something comes in the night and kills her husband, wraps her in a rotten cloak and calls her by the name of her father and his father and all the Kings of Winter.

 

_“Stark.”_

 

* * *

 

 

There are bodies strewn about the hall piecemeal, she looks upon the twisted limbs and foreign faces with distaste and quiet hate, they watched her wed to a monster, they let it ravage her, they watched and they toasted it with fine, wide smiles and wine.

 

She has only seen a smile on the face of one long dead man since the slaughter has been swept away.

 

The nameless wraith sits in her father’s seat and begs her take place beside him.

 

She curtsies low, for surely his court would have always been a dead one, for surely his is a risen King.

 

She was always meant to be some man’s queen.

 

* * *

 

 

A barred door will not hold him, but she wishes to see what he might do.

 

He waits in the shadowed quiet of her bedchambers’ corners, the fire has gone out when he comes to wait beside it.

 

She feigns sleep and he smiles in the dark, rises and comes close to press cold lips to her brow.

 

He speaks her name and then his own, simple and stark as the first piece of winter falling white upon the ground.

 

* * *

 

The wolf might be himself or his shadow, it follows, it is, their eyes are different colors but he might look out from behind both paired stares.

 

He says she has sustained him. Her kindness and constancy what revived him.

 

A wolf of her own he is, and a godless thing that was once a man, once a king, left below in his fallen tomb to rest in torment listening to the world above but left apart from it for ages upon ages.

 

He is hers and she is the only bride he might have.

 

He calls her name and she follows beside him, behind him, before him, it matters not as his hot mouth seems perpetually pressed to her nape, her neck, her throat, at once, all at once, whenever they are close or far from one another.

 

His eyes track her from behind walls and he knows the sound of her careful, weightless steps in halls he remembers too well.

 

* * *

  

He feeds her from his own plate and tastes the wine from her mouth.

 

His touch is ice and a brand all at once.

 

If he bruises her it is not out of a need to, it is not because he wishes to above all else. His touch is wary and rough but is not meant to hurt her, this much she knows.

 

* * *

   

The lords come and expect answer.

 

She tells them all that she knows for sure.

 

“He is to be my husband. Am I not your liege lady, my lord?”

 

No one has seen what has become of the Boltons but they can see well enough that flayed men no longer hang in Winterfell.

 

They are not far from the truth when they assume or guess at what has occurred, blood is held in the cracks of the stone and the great hall smells of iron, the hearths bear great piles of ash and broken bone scored by fire.

 

*            *            *

 

The noble lord says: “Aye, you are the Lady of Winterell.”

 

His pale, red girl does not smile. She raises her eyes and her chin.

 

“Then kneel and pledge your fealty.”

 

The men who have come to take what is left of her home and his ancient keep are fearful of what they have come upon.

 

His cock is rigid inside his breeches.

 

He might slaver over her if the lords do not fall to their knees faster, so they might take their leave as proper lord and lady should upon a conclusion of grievances.

 

* * *

 

“And, men were prey,” he speaks in her ear, sniffing the fall of her hair, her hot nape and the warm curve of her shoulder as he turns her bodily into the stone. The hanging muffles the slap of her hands to the stone and the sound of her desperate gasping as she casts her gaze to the dyed threads as he reaches to lay arms over her hips, hands reaching to pull her skirts from between her legs.

 

He’s lost in the folds of her gown, holding her to him, she presses her brow to the threadbare tapestry and breathes out with harsh speech.

 

“Gloves.”

 

She is never without complaint he thinks, though he knows it makes it seem she has some measure of influence over what he might yet do.

 

He raises his hand so she might catch a fingertip of old leather between her teeth and help pull his cold hand from it, he allows her that much. 

 

She shakes when he touches upon her cunt, forge hot. She rises on her toes, trying to put a knee to the wall. He is ever tender with her, she might have begun to love him for it, love him in some small way if gratitude might be considered such a thing as love.

 

* * *

  

She is careful not to ask where he goes, where he is when he is gone, when he has disappeared.

 

She is curious but doesn't ask. He knows he doesn't need to tell her, for she must know already. A part of her has known from the start. Once, he was a man that other men named sons for.

 

Jon, Jonos, Jonnol. And, all of them killers.

 

Once he had a brother that many other men named sons for.

 

An endless lines of Brandon Starks. And, all of them dead.

 

She is not the first Sansa either.

 

All but him might be ghosts of some other’s name.

 

* * *

  

They left him below, chained and broken with a mouthful of blood and curses and the cold kiss of a dead woman made of ice and bone.

 

He goes out, into the snow and into the wind and for a moment he might be gone. He wonders if his pale, red girl wishes it were so for sure, forever.

 

She puts warmth in him and he will not go so readily into the night as she might hope.

 

* * *

 

The men wonder if it will ever cease to snow.

 

She says she hopes it lasts for it means that none will come north to take her to face false justice.

 

He asks who, he asks where they hide, he asks why they would come at all.

 

They call her murderess and wolf and Stark, she tells him what they all want of her and he would deny them all their foolish wants.

 

She is his alone.

 

* * *

  

She walks through the piling snow, white in her hair and her eyes so very blue. Where he’s been plunged into with knives aches.

 

She smiles uncertainly below.

 

He turns from the window.

 

* * *

  

Above him she is a new creature.

 

She fucks at his biding and does her duty as she should, but it has never been that she has sought him out and climbed upon him as she has this night.

 

“Will you fight for me if I ask?”

 

She is not so guileless as some child, she is a woman, pale and red, her eyes out of the dark shine and he is helpless, looking out over the world and she is asking of him what she might have always been asking of him.

 

“Yes.”

 

She will not wait for enemies to come.

 

She will not be mocked in their songs.

 

She is a queen who has raised a monster from deep within the North.

 

He surges from below.

 

* * *

  

He goes south and he kills men for her. She walks beside him when it is done, she does not smile but she is happy, he thinks. He is unsure of things now, he only wishes to return to where he has come from and she allows him this with a hand pressed sweetly to where his old wounds have begun to bleed.

 

Men look upon her and their stares follow, she is not their queen, she will never be, but they want to wife her and bed her and kneel all the same.

 

In an empty hall where a different ancient seat rests waiting to cut the man who sits upon its steel, he has her upon the floor she once shed tears upon.

 

She is some bright thing beneath him, full of song and fire and when they leave he wonders what they leave behind. He had been a King once, he knows how long such a thing might last before men come to kill them in the day where he has little power.

 

It is not enough.

 

They return to their familiar halls.

 

*            *            *

 

 

Spring does not come but neither does winter arrive. There is little true cold yet, she stands before the hearth, bare and sore and places another log, across the furs he watches her with the eyes of a man returned to vigor.

 

* * *

 

He tongues her mercilessly, crowds his face close to her sex until she must beg for a moment of rest, of reprieve from his lust, his beard had turned her thighs some bright blush of red and he chances to touch them just to watch her face twist.

 

His hips will only rough them more, she puts herself on her knees and presses back towards where he might mount her like a wolf.

 

 _Vargamor_. He puts lips to her ear and smiles the word into her skin. And she knows what the word means now.

 

It is not altogether false, for he has never been _just_ a man.

 

* * *

 

He moves in the skin of a wolf through the snow, through the yard, through the press of men in the hall.

 

He watches her, always.

 

It has ceased to discomfit her.

 

She has not felt so safe since she was a child.

 

*            *            *

 

 

His dead seed quickens inside of her and all he knows is fear.

 

He swore an oath once, one of many others, it is the last broken thing he will leave unmended, he tells her with a hand upon the belly he has filled.

 

She does not think she understands.

 

But, he knows, she does.

 

*            *            *

 

 

Their babe is dead and she is dying.

 

He comes to her at night, the maester gone, she had sent him from her, waiting to fall into the dark to join her lost child.

 

She might weep but the pain has fled and there is a man beside her bloody bed, looking upon her as if she might be his whole world gazed upon from such heights he can not help but to fall and break his bones there.

 

He holds something in his hand like some shining piece of night, as dark as his eyes and puts it into her breast and into her heart and she thinks he means to lead her from life to something kinder but then there is pain and she knows that is not what he does.

 

Soon, his face is no longer the uncracked ice of rage and anguish, and after she can understand his strange tongues of speech and knows from where he received his bloodless wounds.

 

*            *            *

 

The white raven flies from the empty walls, sight of it is lost with the rising winds that turn the snow.

 

It is a sure thing that winter has come.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There may or may not be a sequel to this with a scene I was going to write but then thought better of because I was not quite sure how my fic recipient would feel about Jon as a wolf doing the (super) nasty.


End file.
